Lost and Found
by roberre
Summary: Rumplestiltskin has lost everything he loves. Occasionally, he gets them back. (A series of vignettes examining instances when things considered lost are restored.)
1. Baelfire

**A/N:** These will be a series of drabbles/vignettes/character sketches, whatever you want to call them. I have eight written, but I figure I'll probably have about fifteen or so by the time I run out of steam. They're between 300-500 words, on average and will each examine an aspect of Rumplestiltskin's life that he once lost and now regains. Relatively chronological.

A huge thanks to Anti-Kryptonite for looking them over, fixing my mistakes, and cheerleading me on. :) Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

Baelfire

He walks until his twisted-in foot can hardly hold his weight, until his knee is swollen as thick as his thigh, until his shoes rot away and his feet leave red smears across the moorland, until he cannot take another step. And then he falls. He sleeps. In the shadow of a boulder or beneath the crest of a hillock, in the vast open _nothing_ with dying men screaming in the back of his mind, Rumplestiltskin dreams.

(Rumple has always been a sickly thing _with a crooked leg and stringy hair the colour of sawdust_; but he dreams Baelfire is strapping _with the ability to run and climb and a mop of dark curls falling across his neck_.)

He dreams he will return home to find a beautiful little boy, with earth-brown eyes and a smile that will rip his father's heart clean from his chest.

(Rumple is timid; he dreams his son is valiant.)

He left behind an infant. He dreams of uniting with a son who has learned to walk and laugh and chatter under his breath in a language no-one can understand. A son who learned these things while his father tried and failed to learn the longbow; lived on less than nothing from the back of the rations line; watched the ramshackle camp empty of men and fill with _children._

(Rumple is so very difficult to love; he dreams Bae shines golden, draws people to love him like the heart of a fire draws moths.)

Now he dreams, but soon he will be home, and one glimpse of his son will drive blood and death and cowardice from his mind. One glimpse will justify the miles of torn feet and the parched-throat days and the moment of panic where the battle turned and so did he.

He promised Bae he would come back. (Even if it means they are poor and he works his fingers to the bone spinning new clothes before the winter comes._) _And so he walks._ (And he doesn't care what the village will say.) _And he walks. (Even if it means living as a coward.) And he walks. (_And he won't care what Milah will say.) _And he stares in the face of bleak despair and dreams.

He will crest the final hill and ford the final stream, and hold his son again.


	2. Hope

Hope

Bae will be fourteen in two days.

They want him for the war.

But Rumplestiltskin is desperate. To keep his son _here_, even if _here_ is nothing more than a dusty hovel beside a lame spinner, he will do anything. He will lie, he will hide, he will run, he will lower himself to the ground and kiss the boots of a million tyrannical soldiers— and Bae will never approve of any of it. Bae is too proud (for a _peasant_, and the cog-machine of war will swallow him up for it). Bae is too noble (too noble to be _his _son, and there is a seed of doubt, however Rumple tries to quash it, because perhaps the soldier is right). Bae is too brave.

Already, he's learned how to _live_, whereas Rumplestiltskin has only ever learned not-to-die.

How can he let that fire go out, when it is the best thing he's ever made? When his son is the best thing he's ever had, and ever will have. (When his son is the only thing Rumplestiltskin had left.) How can he send his beautiful child off to war?

Send a foolhardy, self-sacrificing, _wonderful_ boy to the front lines, and he might as well cut Bae's throat himself. Stand by and let the soldiers carry him off, and he will never see his son again. As sure as the sky burns red. (As certain as the inevitability of loss.)

But Rumplestiltskin is desperate, and desperation inspires greatness. Rashness. A facsimile of bravery.

To keep his son safe, Rumplestiltskin will sell his very soul.

All he needs is a way.

A choice (more than just what corner to hide in). A chance (save his son, save all the children). An opportunity (the village coward can be the hero and his son will be proud of him). He finds it all when a man pulls him off the ground and tempts him with power.

In exchange for a few coins and a bowl of stew, the old beggar offers him something priceless.

_Hope_.


	3. Purpose

Purpose

He travels. He walks. He climbs. He ventures the world with a snap of his fingers and he _searches_.

He goes down many paths. The multiplicity of choices fork out before him like the delta of a great river. (And he knows what this looks like because he has seen river deltas from high mountaintops, gazed at winding tendrils of azure water slicing out in all directions through red-brown clay.) He sees all – sees glimpses of his very future – and yet he does not find what he seeks.

_(A realm jumper. A time turner. A mage.)_

He makes deals. Wheedles. Persuades. Spins words like he spun thread, weaves the fates of disparate bystanders into a matted tapestry, shaping them into something he can _use_. He always upholds his end of the bargain, and he always wants something in return. But they can't provide it. It's not their faults but he blames them nonetheless.

_(A curse.)_

Their lives blend together and disappear into the expanse of time, and he forgets them like he forgets himself.

It becomes his life: the travelling and the dealing. The searching and the hunting and the manipulating and the loneliness. He watches from afar as kingdoms fall and heroes conquer –and he sits on the top of a mountain with a river delta at his feet and waits for True Love. He waits like a predator so he can cage it, like a thief so he can steal it, like an alchemist so he can bottle it. Because he needs it.

_(You took my son. But I will get him back.)_

Once he had dreams and desires but now there is only purpose. There is only determination. The need to survive has become the need to endure has become the need to find Bae. Everything in his life crumbles beneath the need to find Bae find Bae find Bae find Bae until it drives him mad with the endless repetition and nightmares filled with his son's screams and he will find Bae even as centuries roll past because Bae cannot be dead because –

_(I will do nothing else – I will _love_ nothing else.)_

- Rumplestiltskin will never rest until he finds his son.

(_I will find him.) _

And nothing will stand in his way.


	4. Humanity

Humanity

She likes when he smiles.

It's a startling realization: one that makes him want to clamp his lips shut and turn his face away and send her back to the dungeon ("_let's call it your room"). _He clothes himself in monstrous leather and scales and fur and fills the air with crackling magic and conducts his deals where she can see his heartlessness on full display. Where she can watch him mock the tears of others and rob them of what they love most. He tries to frighten her off, and it does not work.

She likes it when he laughs.

It puzzles him. What possesses her to find him _funny_ when all others cower in fear – to smile and wink and laugh back and never drop a single teacup again no matter how dark his moods. Her casual banter strips him of his giggle and his swagger and drives him to spin a thousand skeins of gold _("why do you spin so much?"_) just to remember what existence was like when the Dark Castle was dark and he was a monster worthy of legend. Before she stripped him naked and peeled back his scales and leafed through the pages of his heart like it was her favourite book.

She likes to sit with him. To eat with him. To talk to him, to walk with him, to pry into the darkest corners of his house and the darkest corners of his mind and _be with_ _him_.

And it's baffling. At first he thinks it must be a ruse. _("Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses_.") But she doesn't need to trick him because the fool woman can see right through him. Because when she's around he becomes a transparent pane of glass. Because she looks at him and sees what he's tried so hard to forget: behind the masque and the magic, he's nothing but a poor spinner with a lost son.

_("an ordinary man.")_

Behind the masque and the magic, he's human.


	5. Despair

Despair

He sent her away. And yet, he waits.

(He waits with the inexorable patience of a man who has lived a dozen lifetimes. With hope kindled from long-familiar desperation. With a courage that is not courage at all—merely denial under another name.) He waits because he hopes. And he hopes because he is afraid of the alternative. He lays the silver tray with tea for two_—in plain white cups and a silver pot, no memories, no flash of gold, no splash of blue, no chips_— and makes no deals today.

He is a patient man.

He stands at his wheel and spins to pass the time. But not to forget. How can he, when his castle is filled with sunlight and she shines in ever polished surface? How can he when she inhabits the dungeons of his mind? When her laughter echoes through deserted hallways? When Regina waltzes through the door and rubs salt in his visibly gaping wounds…

_("What was her name? Margie? Verna?")_

When he hears of torments and cruelty, he clings to the faint possibility of a second chance. Behind wide-eyes and shaking hands and a tentative question _("so… she needs a home"),_ his defiant flicker of hope runs wild.

In his mind, he snaps his fingers and the doors open and the castle clears of dust. Of course, she will no longer be his prisoner. He will provide her with a larger bedroom. Seal the dungeon. He will instate new rules and offer her new tasks to fill her days (not chores or assignments, of course, but _suggestions_ for her own amusement.) And perhaps he'll open the library, since she is so fond of books. And perhaps they'll travel together so she can see the world, as she always desired. And perhaps-

_("She died.")_

Perhaps she's not coming back after all.

For the first time since a whirling green vortex tore his son away, despair rakes its claws across his back. (_And he wants to scream._) Despair hollows him out. (_And he wants to kill_.) Despair cripples him, certain as a twisted-in-foot and a never-healing knee. (_And he wants to rage and smash and destroy, but he's already done that_.) And he's so tired.

So he sends Regina away with hardly a word, and sets Belle's cup on a pedestal for all to see. Exposing the monster's weaknesses. Baring the heart of a beast.

(_"You're not a monster.")_

For the first time, he wonders if she was right.

Monsters don't cry over broken crockery.


	6. Dignity

Dignity

He walks.

He could drive. He could cruise around town in his sleek black 1992 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham d'Elegance with its grey roof and tinted windows. He could send someone on his errands for him (no one would double cross him, no one would dare). He could do many things to collect the rent. But he walks.

He steps out of his house in a sleek-black suit with an emerald-striped tie, hand curled around a gold-plated cane, and takes to the sidewalk. He starts at the far side of town and raps on the first door, tapping his knuckle and a turquoise-ring against the burgundy-painted wood.

(In his dreams heis a peasant boy with a twisted foot_, run down by a donkey cart because he is too slow to clear the road._)

By the time he reaches the sixth door, he's travelled four miles. Beneath pinstriped cotton trousers, his knee aches. He has painkillers in his pockets, and when he stops for a coffee at Granny's, he surreptitiously pops them into his mouth. Two aspirin for the swelling and an ibuprofen for the pain. But the pills will be the only sign, because he's lived far too long to let his weakness show (and even if he does, no one will comment. No one will dare).

And the pills will be the only sign because he won't stop walking until his briefcase is full to brimming with cheques and rolls of bills—even if knee is swollen as thick as his thigh, if his shoes rot away and his feet leave red smears across the pavement, even if he cannot take another step.

(In his dreams he is a spinner, _knocked to the ground and cowering, scrubbing the taste of leather boots and mud from his lips._)

At the end of the day, everyone pays. Even if their clothes are threadbare and outdated, if their children stare at him from behind half-shuttered windows with wide, pleading eyes, they pay. Their cars may have flat tires, and they may hand him a pickle-jar with a slotted lid, filled with nickels and dimes instead of a roll of twenties and hundreds, but they pay.

He is a cripple, certainly. (His dreams have one thing right.) But here, in the daylight, he is respected and feared. In the real world he wears designer suits, custom shoes, and flashes gold when he smiles. And perhaps he's harsh at times, and cold, and he sneers and mocks and jibes. And perhaps they hate him almost as much as they hate their mayor. And perhaps it's lonely. (But nobody pities him. No one will dare.)

(In his dreams he is a monster.)

The man in his dreams pushes others away_, _because nobody to love means nobody to lose. Mister Gold walks, carrying a full briefcase to an empty house, and rejects that man entirely.

He belongs _here_, he thinks. In a town without donkey carts or boots to kiss, where men and women cross the street just to avoid him. Unloved but unpitied, on his own two feet even if his custom leather shoes blister and even if his knee burns with jagged glass edges and fire. Unloved but dignified, in a suit with a gold cane and a gold tooth and a gold watch, with a briefcase full of security and paymentand power.

He belongs in a place where nobody pities him, and nobody to love means nobody to stand in his way.


	7. Memories

Memories

Emma.

_(Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma a million times over a million and one times until the paper is gone and the ink is gone and he will never forget the name Emma because in twenty eight years he will remember because Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma is the saviour is the key.)_

Her name is –

The full force of _Rumplestiltskin_ hits him In the back of the head, like a two-by-four, like a car crash, all twisted metal and screeching and knocking the breath right out of him. He blinks. And then, inexplicably, he smiles.

"Emma. What a lovely name."

He holds onto _Gold_ the whole way through town, a cane in one hand and a roll of rent money in the other. He walks down familiar streets with (_Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma) _bouncing around in his skull. Dislodging memories. Uncovering secrets. Dragging the skeletons out of the proverbial closet and setting them on display before his very eyes. (He walks down familiar streets with the aftertaste of magic on his tongue, and limps up the stairs to his home remembering how much he misses it.)

He's had nearly fifty years of Gold—but three hundred of Rumplestiltskin, and when he closes the door to his home (_Pink. Interesting choice.) _he can't hold him back a moment longer. So he doesn't try. And it feels so _exquisite_ and so _exciting_ and so terribly tragic as his memories flood back into him that he laughs and grins and stretches and rolls his neck like a man coming out of a long, long sleep.

He spends the remainder of the day inside, rifling through boxes and poring over shelves, inventorying the visible tokens of his life on earth.

The two sides of him drift around in a swirling mix like blood and water, curling about like red smoke within his brain, pounding through his veins. Two substances in one body. (It takes some time to adjust.) And then, slowly, they settle. Conflicting feelings and memories and unfamiliar personalities wrestle and scramble and—

Blend.

And then he is only _him, _Rumplestiltskin or Mister Gold or enigmatically both at once.

And he thinks of Belle, and he aches. (_Hollow. Weeping. With an empty heart and the chipped cup in his hands_.)

And he thinks of Baelfire, and he aches. (_Numb. Desperate. So so sorry, Bae.)_

And he can't remember feeling more _himself_ for a very long while.


	8. Power

Power

It had seemed so innocuous when she agreed to the deal.

What sort of trouble could one word bring? (Such a tame word.)

What complications could it ever cause? (Such a helpful, polite word.)

What destruction could be leveled at her head with a single uttered syllable? (Such a harmless little word.)

What could Mister Gold do with a _please_?

Well, he could refuse to answer her questions—and so he does. And he could flaunt his newfound power with a smile – and so he does. And he could shut her up, and drive her frantic with wondering if he knows his real name (if he knows _Rumplestiltskin _or merely _Mister Gold_)—and so he does.

He can play her, with this power, like that silly fellow from Hamelin—lead her along by the nose and make her dance to his tune. And he can play her because she's broken his heart with callous little words (_"she died"_), and because they've been clawing at each other like wildcats for as long as he can remember, and because he's always been the one with the power. He remembers who he is (and he is so very good at playing her); and he remembers who _she_ is (and she has always been so very easy to play), and she is afraid. She should be.

With a single word dancing at his fingertips with all the lightning-finesse of magic, he can re-establish and reassert and remind her of her place in this world: a place, like the last, where he stands on top and she lies in the dust at his feet. As it always has been. (As it always should be.) And she's only just beginning to realize. And it will drive her mad.

Almost in passing, almost keeping the smirk from his face, he asks her to sit.

He says it so innocuously, but she has no choice.

Because he is Rumplestiltskin. (Such a little word.)

Because she is the Evil Queen. (Such a clever, wonderful word.)

Because his agreements are always honoured. (Such a powerful word.)

She made a deal she did not understand, enacted a curse she could not control, and sent a man to take away the only precious thing he possesses. And he will make sure she regrets her actions with every breath.

Until the day he looks at her and smiles and asks her to stop breathing.

_Please._

* * *

**A/N: **A huge thanks (as usual) to AK for looking over all these for me. She's fantabulous and I love her.

Also, THANK YOU EVERYONE for reading/faving/reviewing/etc. Seriously, I'm really flattered and I'm glad you like it! I also will get around to review-replying eventually. I'm just lazy and busy and have the memory retention of a teaspoon. Not a great combination. But your reviews really do make my day and I love seeing them in my inbox, so please don't take my silence as a lack of appreciation. (Because you are all da best, my lovelies.)


	9. Belle

Belle

The bell rings, though the shop is closed (and he wonders why he invested in a sign if nobody cares to read it.) He pockets the vial and hides the egg and responds to the intruder with a politeness he does not feel (and an urgency he does).

Yes, he is Mister Gold, but he's afraid the shop's closed and—

It seems his little bell has brought back the dead.

He's seen her a million times in his mind's eye—but never like this, never dishevelled or dazed or confused or wearing a tatty sweater over a hospital gown and too-big slippers. Never staring at him with blankness and confusion and fear scrawled so obviously over her features. Never wondering who he is or what she's doing here or why he stares at her open-mouthed and approaches her so cautiously because if she evaporates beneath his touch one more time he might need True Love's magic just to keep his heart beating.

Against hope, he places a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes. She stares at him uncertainly, with suspicion, but she stays.

_"You're real."_

He pulls his hand away.

And it would be so much easier to process the implications if the world wasn't tilting like it might crack apart and send them all hurtling into oblivion.

_"You're alive."_

And it would be so much easier to look at her if his eyes weren't filling with tears.

_(_So much easier to drive his cane into Regina's skull if his hands weren't trembling.)

And it would be so much easier not to cry if she'd disappeared (because he had dreamed of this moment a thousand times and he is used to disappointment); if she didn't ask him to protect her (when he would have gladly sacrificed the world a hundred times over if he'd thought it would ever make a difference); if she had pushed him away when he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

But she is real, and she is here, and "_Oh yes—yes, I'll protect you_," and his vision swims and he can barely stay upright, even with the help of his cane.

_Belle is alive. _

She pulls away (but she does not disappear), and she blinks at him (but she does not run), and she does not know him.

But she will.


	10. Magic

Magic

All the world turns to stare at him.

Purple smoke boils out of the well and rolls across his skin, electricity and oxygen and life_._ It hits him with the force of crashing wave, with the inevitability of the rising tide, with the speed of a river forced through rapids. It tastes so potent, both new and familiar; a jolt of adrenaline like a stent directly to the brain-stem; a heady rush that has his most basic of instincts leaping for joy; a breath of fresh air that makes the colours burst to life before his eyes and fills his muscles with raw power.

He staggers momentarily. He grabs the edge of the well (_stones rough beneath his fingers_), grips his cane (_warm gold handle and smooth black wood_), closes his fingers gently around Belle's arm (_soft and _real_ and pulsating with life)_ to steady himself. All around him, the world screams.

(He is a bright star in a black hole.)

It pulls at him from all directions like a beggar after gold. It threatens to tear him apart. It longs for what he now possesses in spades.

(He is the Dark One and he is Rumplestiltskin and every nerve alights with blazing purple fire.)

Magic speaks to him like a lover. It whispers, seductive in his ear, spooling the future out before him like a kite on a string. It is his confidant, his provider, his strength and his courage. The tingle of healing fingertips and the roar of a blazing fireball in his palm. The whirling unstoppable force that drains the blood from Belle's already-pale face, even as it whips his heartbeat into a frenzy.

_(_He is the first man in millennia to exist in _this_ world and possess _this_ power.)

And if he wanted to he could run, he could dance, he could _sweep Belle up in his arms because she remembers him and she's alive and together they can find Bae find Bae find Bae._

If he wanted to, he could rule the world.

Magic is back.

* * *

**A/N: **First of all, I AM REALLY SORRY. I TOTALLY FORGOT TO POST THIS. I actually had it written shortly after the rest of them, but... somehow just thought I posted it? Apparently not. So I'm sorry.

Anyway, I'll be writing more of these, but maybe not for a while. I stopped after SE 1, because SE 2 hadn't aired yet. But now it has, and I am free to resume. So expect more, but... maybe not for a little while. Thank you all so much for reading these! I hope you've enjoyed them so far and I hope you continue to enjoy. Really really sorry again.

Also, reviews for guest reviewers.

emmafan11- Renee, you are the best. 3 Thanks so much for reviewing. It means a lot to me, esp bc I know you in real life and you can just tell me what you think. Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule just for meeee. I'm also glad you like the imagery. I try to keep it fresh and interesting and I will definitely keep writing more.

Guest (chapter 4)- Thank you! I'm really glad you like the repetition. One of my favourite things about shorter works is the ability to play around with writing style. I'm glad it works. :)

Guest (chapter 8)- I definitely WILL deal with all the stuff between Rumple and Henry, but when I was writing this I was only doing season 1. Now that I've seen all of season 2, I'll start writing about some of the stuff that happens there. :)

Guest (chapter 9)- Thank you so much for your kind words! One thing I love about drabbles is that they allow me to bring some of that poetic language into the story. It's so hard to maintain over a long period of time, and it loses it's flow- but in a short piece, I can really pack some punches in terms of word choice and flow. So I'm really glad it comes across well, and that I'm not just flailing around making noise. haha. Thank you so much! I'm really sorry you had to wait this long. It was just a total error on my part. Hope you enjoy this chap and the rest of them, when I get around to working on Season 2. :)


End file.
